Strength would be more than putting the envelope back in its hiding place. It would be flushing the contents down the toilet. I’m not that strong. I don’t need to take the pills, but I do need to know that I could if I wanted to. Just like I needed to know I could sleep with Christian if I wanted to.

In bed again, I lie awake next to my husband. My eyes are wide open into the darkness. Yearning. The empty space inside me yawns wider. It is nowhere close to the abyss it had once been … but it’s getting there.

CHAPTER
8

“IS THAT NEW?”

I look up from the bowl of macaroni salad I’m mixing and pretend I don’t know what Ken’s talking about. “Hmmm?”

“That dress,” he says. “Is it new?”

The spoon scrapes the side of the bowl. Mayonnaise and mustard mix together, covering the elbow noodles in creamy yellow. I concentrate on the bits of hard-boiled egg. I don’t look at him.

“I’ve had it forever. I wear it all the time.” My voice is light and lilting. Unconcerned. I’ve never worn the dress before. I bought it last week, along with the designer sandals I’m also wearing. Along with a lot of other things. Buying it felt better than having it. Having it feels better than wearing it.

Ken snags a carrot stick from the platter on the table. He’s been pacing around the kitchen all morning while I get ready for the Labor Day barbecue I hadn’t expected to prepare. “Looks good on you. Hey, did you invite the neighbors over?”

“I did not. It’s very last minute. I didn’t think you’d be home. But I guess you could if you want to?”

“Maybe I want to show off my beautiful wife.” Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Finally, I look at him. “Do you want to invite them over?”

Ken’s always been Mr. Congeniality, the one who waves over the fence, asks about the grandkids, the new puppy, the Christmas decorations. He shrugs. “Not if you don’t want to. Hey, instead of burgers, how about we grill up some steaks? Asparagus? Corn on the cob! Really make a feast out of it?”

“I don’t have any steaks. I only have burger patties.” I pause, trying to figure out why he’s being so … manic.

His phone buzzes from the pocket of his jeans. Ken pulls it out. Swipes the screen. Frowns. His eyes scan the text. He doesn’t tap out a reply, but instead shoves the phone back into his pocket.

I think of the mark on his thigh and wonder if the person who made it is the one who messaged him.

“I’ll go get some,” he says as though we hadn’t been interrupted.

“I don’t know if the store will be open—”

“I’ll be back in a bit. Can you make your tomato salad? You know how much I love your tomato salad.” Ken kisses me quickly, before I have time to make another protest, and leaves the house.